PART 36. Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore.

Page 278. Lord Byron.

Pages 279 & 280. Charles Kingsley.

NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

Page 19. _Courtney Melmoth_ was the assumed name of T. J.

Pratt, who wrote “The Tears of Genius” lamenting the death of

Oliver Goldsmith.

Page 20, Line 3. For Cast read _Caste_.

Page 71, Column 2, line 6. Read “Mr. William Cadenhead.”

Page 80, Foot Note.――For “dear runs” read _deer runs_.

Page 197. The Enigma on the letter H. here ascribed to Lord

Byron was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe.

Page 208. “The Un-True Story” was written by Mr. Walter

Parke for _Punch and Judy_, in 1870. The fifth line should

read:――

“_Know ye the land of the dollar and dime?_”

Page 218. Foot Note. Read, “Parody of a song in _The

Veiled Prophet of Khorassan_.”

Page 229. Don Juan Un-Read. This is a parody of _Wordsworth’s

Yarrow Unvisited_.

A CHAPTER ON PARODIES.

A lady of _bas bleu_ celebrity (the term is getting odious,

particularly to our _savantes_) had two friends, whom she equally

admired――an elegant poet, and his parodist. She had contrived to

prevent their meeting as long as her stratagems lasted, till at length

she apologised to the serious bard for inviting him when his mock

_umbra_ was to be present. Astonished, she perceived that both men of

genius felt a mutual esteem for each other’s opposite talent; the

ridiculed had perceived no malignity in the playfulness of the parody,

and even seemed to consider it as a compliment, aware that parodists

do not waste their talent on obscure productions; while the ridiculer

himself was very sensible that he was the inferior poet. The

lady-critic had imagined that PARODY must necessarily be malicious;

and in some cases it is said those on whom the parody has been

performed, have been of the same opinion.

PARODY strongly resembles mimicry, a principle in human nature not so

artificial as it appears. Man may well be defined a mimetic animal.

The African boy who amused the whole kafle he journeyed with, by

mimicking the gestures and the voice of the auctioneer who had sold

him at the slave market a few days before, could have had no sense of

scorn, of superiority, or of malignity; the boy experienced merely the

pleasure of repeating attitudes and intonations which had so forcibly

excited his interest. The numerous parodies of Hamlet’s soliloquy were

never made in derision of that solemn monologue, no more than the

travesties of Virgil by Scarron and Cotton; their authors were never

so gaily mad as that. We have parodies on the Psalms by Luther;

Dodsley parodied the book of Chronicles, and Franklin’s most beautiful

story of Abraham is a parody on the Scripture-style; not one of these

writers, however, proposed to ridicule their originals; some ingenuity

in the application was all that they intended. The lady-critic alluded

to had suffered by a panic, in imagining that a parody was necessarily

a corrosive satire. Had she indeed proceeded one step further, and

asserted that PARODIES might be classed among the most malicious

inventions in literature, in such parodies as Colman and Lloyd made on

Gray’s odes, in their odes to “Oblivion and Obscurity,” her readings

possibly might have supplied the materials of the present research.

PARODIES were frequently practised by the ancients, and with them,

like ourselves, consisted of a work grafted on another work, but which

turned on a different subject by a slight change of the expressions.

It might be a sport of fancy, the innocent child of mirth; or a

satirical arrow drawn from the quiver of caustic criticism; or it was

that malignant art which only studies to make the original of the

parody, however beautiful, contemptible and ridiculous. Human nature

thus enters into the composition of parodies, and their variable

character originates in the purpose of their application.

There is in “the million” a natural taste for farce after tragedy, and

they gladly relieve themselves by mitigating the solemn seriousness of

the tragic drama; for they find, as one of them told us, that it is

but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and if this taste be

condemned by the higher order of intellectual persons, and a critic

said he would prefer to have the farce played before the tragedy, the

taste for parody would be still among them, for whatever tends to

level a work of genius is usually very agreeable to a great number of

contemporaries. In the history of PARODIES, some of the learned have

noticed a supposititious circumstance, which it is not improbable

happened, for it is a very natural one. When the rhapsodists, who

strolled from town to town to chant different fragments of the poems

of Homer, and had recited some, they were immediately followed by

another set of strollers――buffoons who made the same audience merry by

the burlesque turn which they gave to the solemn strains which had

just so deeply engaged their attention. It is supposed that we have

one of these travesties of the Iliad in one Sotades, who succeeded by

only changing the measure of the verses without altering the words,

which entirely disguised the Homeric character; fragments of which are

scattered in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, which I leave to the

curiosity of the learned Grecian.[1] Homer’s battle of the Frogs and

Mice, a learned critic, the elder Heinsius, asserts, was not written

by the poet, but is a parody on the poem. It is evidently as good

humoured an one as any in the “Rejected Addresses.” And it was because

Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the

playful honours of the parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to

us, a parody is nothing! Of these parodists of Homer we may regret the

loss of one. Timon of Philius, whose parodies were termed Silli, from

Silenus being their chief personage; he levelled them at the

sophistical philosophers of his age: his invocation is grafted on the

opening of the Iliad, to recount the evil doings of those babblers,

whom he compares to those bags in which Æolus deposited all his winds;

balloons inflated with empty ideas! We should like to have

appropriated some of these _silli_, or parodies of Timon the

Sillograph, which, however, seem to have been at times calumnious.[2]

Shenstone’s “School Mistress,” and some few other ludicrous poems,

derive much of their merit from parody.

This taste for parodies was very prevalent with the Grecians, and is a

species of humour which perhaps has been too rarely practised by the

moderns: Cervantes has some passages of this nature in his parodies of

the old chivalric romances; Fielding in some parts of his Tom Jones

and Joseph Andrews, in his burlesque poetical descriptions; and Swift

in his “Battle of Books,” and “Tale of a Tub,” but few writers have

equalled the delicacy and felicity of Pope’s parodies in the “Rape of

the Lock.” Such parodies give refinement to burlesque.

The ancients made a liberal use of it in their satirical comedy, and

sometimes carried it on through an entire work, as in the Menippean

satire, Seneca’s mock _Eloge_ of Claudius, and Lucian in his

Dialogues. There are parodies even in Plato, and an anecdotical one

recorded of this philosopher shows them in their most simple state.

Dissatisfied with his own poetical essays he threw them into the

flames; that is, the sage resolved to sacrifice his verses to the god

of fire; and in repeating that line in Homer where Thetis addresses

Vulcan to implore his aid, the application became a parody, although

it required no other change than the insertion of the philosopher’s

name instead of the goddess’s:[3]

“Vulcan, arise! ’tis _Plato_ claims thy aid!”

Boileau affords a happy instance of this simple parody. Corneille, in

his Cid, makes one of his personages remark,

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,

Ils peuvent se tromper comme les autres hommes.”

A slight alteration became a fine parody in Boileau’s “Chapelain

Décoiflé.”

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,

Ils se trompent _en vers_ comme les autres hommes.”

We find in Athenæus the name of the Inventor of a species of parody

which more immediately engages our notice――DRAMATIC PARODIES. It

appears this inventor was a satirist, so that the lady-critic, whose

opinion we had the honour of noticing, would be warranted by appealing

to its origin to determine the nature of the thing. A dramatic parody,

which produced the greatest effect, was “the Gigantomachia.” as

appears by the only circumstance known of it. Never laughed the

Athenians so heartily as at its representation, for the fatal news of

the deplorable state to which the affairs of the republic were reduced

in Sicily arrived at its first representation――and the Athenians

continued laughing to the end! as the modern Athenians, the volatile

Parisians, might in their national concern of an OPERA COMIQUE. It was

the business of the dramatic parody to turn the solemn tragedy, which

the audience had just seen exhibited, into a farcical comedy; the same

actors who had appeared in magnificent dresses, now returned on the

stage in grotesque habiliments, with odd postures and gestures, while

the story, though the same, was incongruous and ludicrous. The Cyclops

of Euripides is probably the only remaining specimen; for this may be

considered as a parody of the ninth book of the Odyssey――the

adventures of Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, where Silenus and a

chorus of satyrs are farcically introduced, to contrast with the grave

narrative of Homer, of the shifts and escape of the cunning man “from

the one-eyed ogre.” The jokes are too coarse for the French taste of

Brumoy, who, in his translation, goes on with a critical growl and

foolish apology for Euripides having written a farce; Brumoy, like

Pistol, is forced to eat his onion, but with a worse grace, swallowing

and execrating to the end.

In dramatic composition, Aristophanes is perpetually hooking in

parodies of Euripides, whom of all poets he hated, as well as of

Æschylus, Sophocles, and other tragic bards. Since that Grecian wit,

at length, has found a translator saturated with his genius, and an

interpreter as philosophical, the subject of Grecian parody will

probably be reflected in a clearer light from his researches.

Dramatic parodies in modern literature were introduced by our

vivacious neighbours, and may be said to constitute a class of

literary satires peculiar to the French nation. What had occurred in

Greece a similar gaiety of national genius unconsciously reproduced.

The dramatic parodies in our own literature, as in “The Rehearsal,”

“Tom Thumb,” and “The Critic,” however exquisite, are confined to

particular passages, and are not grafted on a whole original; we have

neither naturalised the dramatic parody into a species, nor dedicated

to it the honours of a separate theatre.

This peculiar dramatic satire, a burlesque of an entire tragedy, the

volatile genius of the Parisians accomplished. Whenever a new tragedy,

which still continues the favourite species of drama with the French,

attracted the notice of the town, shortly after up rose its parody at

the Italian theatre. A French tragedy is most susceptible of this sort

of ridicule, by applying its declamatory style, its exaggerated

sentiments, and its romantic out-of-the-way nature to the commonplace

incidents and persons of domestic life; out of the stuff of which they

made their emperors, their heroes, and their princesses, they cut out

a pompous country justice, a hectoring tailor, or an impudent

mantua-maker; but it was not merely this travesty of great personages,

nor the lofty effusions of one in a lowly station, which terminated

the object of parody; it intended a better object, that of more

obviously exposing the original for any absurdity in its scenes, or in

its catastrophe, and dissecting faulty characters; in a word,

critically weighing the nonsense of the poet. It sometimes became a

refined instructor for the public, whose discernment is often blinded

by party or prejudice. It was, too, a severe touch-stone for genius:

Racine, some say, smiled, others say he did not, when he witnessed

Harlequin, in the language of Titus to Berenice, declaiming on some

ludicrous affair to Columbine; La Motte was very sore, and Voltaire

and others shrunk away with a cry――from a parody! Voltaire was angry

when he witnessed his _Mariamne_ parodied by _La mauvaise Mênage_; or

“Bad House-keeping:” the aged, jealous Herod was turned into an old

cross country justice; Varus, bewitched by Mariamne, strutted a

dragoon; and the whole establishment showed it was under very bad

management. Fuzelier collected some of these parodies,[4] and not

unskilfully defends their nature and their object against the protest

of La Motte, whose tragedies had severely suffered from these

burlesques. His celebrated domestic tragedy of Inez de Castro, the

fable of which turns on a concealed and clandestine marriage, produced

one of the happiest parodies in _Agnes de Chaillot_. In the parody the

cause of the mysterious obstinacy of Pierrot the son, in persisting to

refuse the hand of the daughter of his mother-in-law Madame _la

Baillive_, is thus discovered by her to Monsieur _le Baillif_:――

“Mon mari, pour le coup j’ai découvert l’affaire,

Ne vous étonnez plus qu’à nos désirs contraire,

Pour ma fille, Pierrot, ne montre que mépris:

Voilà l’unique objet dont son cœur est épris.”

(_Pointing to Agnes de Chaillot._

The Baillif exclaims,

“Ma servante?”

This single word was the most lively and fatal criticism of the tragic

action of Inez de Castro, which, according to the conventional decorum

and fastidious code of French criticism, grossly violated the majesty

of Melpomene, by giving a motive and an object so totally undignified

to the tragic tale. In the parody there was something ludicrous when

the secret came out which explained poor Pierrot’s long concealed

perplexities, in the maid-servant bringing forward a whole legitimate

family of her own! La Motte was also galled by a projected parody of

his “Machabees”――where the hasty marriage of the young Machabeus, and

the sudden conversion of the amorous Antigone, who, for her first

penitential act, persuades a youth to marry her, without first

deigning to consult her respectable mother, would have produced an

excellent scene for the parody. But La Motte prefixed an angry preface

to his Inez de Castro; he inveighs against all parodies, which he

asserts to be merely a French fashion (we have seen, however, that it

was once Grecian), the offspring of a dangerous spirit of ridicule,

and the malicious amusement of superficial minds.――“Were this true,”

retorts Fuzelier, “we ought to detest parodies; but we maintain, that

far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by

ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it

is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do

we parody but the absurdities of dramatic writers, who frequently make

their heroes act against nature, common sense and truth? After all” he

ingeniously adds, “it is the public, not we, who are the authors of

these PARODIES; for they are usually but the echoes of the pit, and we

parodists have only to give a dramatic form to the opinions and

observations we hear. Many tragedies,” Fuzelier, with admirable truth,

observes, “disguise vices into virtues, and PARODIES unmask them.” We

have had tragedies recently which very much required parodies to

expose them, and to shame our inconsiderate audiences, who patronised

these monsters of false passions. The rants and bombast of some of

these might have produced, with little or no alteration of the

inflated originals, “A Modern Rehearsal,” or a new “Tragedy for Warm

Weather.”

Of PARODIES, we may safely approve of their legitimate use, and even

indulge their agreeable maliciousness; while we must still dread that

extraordinary facility to which the public, or rather human nature,

are so prone, as sometimes to laugh at what, at another time, they

would shed tears.

Tragedy is rendered comic or burlesque by altering the _station_ and

_manners_ of the _persons_; and the reverse may occur, of raising what

is comic and burlesque into tragedy. On so little depends the sublime

or the ridiculous! Beattie says “In most human characters there are

blemishes, moral, intellectual, or corporeal; by exaggerating which,

to a certain degree, you may form a comic character; as by raising the

virtues, abilities, or external advantages of individuals, you form

epic or tragic characters;” a subject humourously touched upon by

Lloyd, in the prologue to “The Jealous Wife.”

“Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,

Grow too familiar in the comic scene;

Tinge but the language with heroic chime,

’Tis passion, pathos, character sublime.

What big round words had swell’d the pompous scene,

A king the husband, and the wife a queen!”

――――:o:――――

This apology for Parody, extracted from “The Curiosities of

Literature,” was written by the late Mr. Isaac D’Israeli more

than fifty years ago. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli was a Jewish

gentleman of great literary attainments, and of a most

amiable character. He was the father of the late Benjamin

Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli died in

1848.

Dr. Oliver Goldsmith,

_Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov._ 29, 1728,

_Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April_ 4, 1774.

[Illustration: B]efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver

Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he,

himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known

“Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the

Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on

Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared

in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before

Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he

had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained

a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in

all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in

which the following lines occur:――

“Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse,

D’un homme sent la trahison,

Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse,

Peut-elle trouver une guérison?

Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir.

La seule revanche pour son tort

Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir,

Hélas! trop tard,――est la mort.”[5]

These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:――

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom――is to die.

――――

A PARAPHRASE.

“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,”

And finds out too late that false man can “betray,”

She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,”

And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,

Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,

There is but one method” which he can discover

That’s likely to answer――that one is “to die!”

He’s wrong――the wan and withering cheek;

The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;

The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak

The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone

That whispering mocks the pitying ear;

Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown

As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one’s heart enough

If made of penetrable stuff.

From _The Black Mousquetaire_ (The Ingoldsby Legends.)

――――

A SONG FOR THE MILLION.

When Harry Brougham turns a Tory,

Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray,

What can revive his tarnish’d glory?

What his desertion best repay?

The only robe his shame to cover,

To hide the brand upon his back,

And best reward this faithless lover――

That Peel can give him is――_the sack_.

_Punch_ February, 1844.

――――

“WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.”

When lovely woman wants a favour,

And finds, too late, that man won’t bend,

What earthly circumstance can save her

From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,

The last experiment to try,

Whether a husband or a lover,

If he have feeling, is――to cry!

From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854.

――――

A SONG.

When lovely woman, prone to folly,

Finds that e’en ROWLAND’S oils betray;

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can turn gray hairs away?

The only art gray hairs to cover,

To hide their tint from every eye,

To win fresh praises from her lover,

And make him offer――is to dye.

_Punch_, April, 1854.

――――

A REMEDY.

When lovely woman stoops to poli-

Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay,

What charm can wean her from her folly,

And put her in the proper way?

The only plan we can discover,

Is the one we now propose;

That she should obtain a lover,

Marry him, and mend his hose.

_Diogenes_, 1853.

――――

CANZONET ON CRINOLINE.

_By a Wretch._

When lovely woman, hooped in folly,

Grows more expansive every day,

And makes her husband melancholy

To think what bills he’ll have to pay.

When in the width of fashion swelling,

With air-balloons her skirts may vie,

The truth――(what hinders _Punch_ from telling?)――

Is that she looks a perfect Guy!

_Punch_, February 21, 1857.

――――

“ANOTHER WAY.”

When lovely woman, Lump of Folly,

Would show the world her vainest trait;

Would treat herself as child her dolly,

And warn each man of sense away.

The surest method she’ll discover

To prompt a wink from every eye,

Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,

And spoil a scalp-skin――is to dye,

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866.

――――

A SILLY MANAGER.

When Managers have stooped to folly,

And find vulgarity won’t pay,

And audiences won’t be jolly,

But boldly rise and hiss the play:

In order their misdeeds to cover,

Some clap-trap for the gods they try

Before the farce is halfway over,

And insult add to injury.

_Fun_, November 24, 1866.

――――

GOLDSMITH IMPROVED.

When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6]

And finds, too late, her teeth decay,

What penitence can cure her follies,

What chloroform her pain allay?

If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied;

If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt.

So she must get her mouth refitted,

Or, what is better――keep it shut!

_The Grasshopper_, July 1, 1869.

――――

BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.

When lovely woman, still a maiden,

Finds her locks are turning grey,

What art can keep their hue from fading?

What balm can intercept delay?

The only art her age to cover,

To hide the change from every eye,

To quell repentance in her lover,

And soothe his bosom is――_to dye_.

_Kottabos._ Dublin, W. McGee, 1872.

――――

FASHION.

When lovely woman stoops to fashion

And finds it like man’s fancy change,

What can reclaim the truant passion,

And capture it no more to range?

The only way to curb love’s passion.

And charm her fickle lover’s eye,

To bring the colour to her chignon――

As the old joke says is――to dye.

_The Hornet._

――――

STANZAS ON WOMAN――BY O. G.

When lovely woman takes to rinking,

And finds how hard the asphalte’s got,

What charm can save her heart from sinking,

What art can heal the injured spot?

The only plan she can pursue,

To save herself another fall,

In fact the only thing to do,

In future’s not to rink at all.

_The Idylls of the Rink_, 1876.

――――

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

_By a modern Goldsmith._

When lovely woman reads _Le Follet_,

And tries her best to men betray;

She makes herself a pretty dolly,

But fritters all her soul away.

When she grows old, and charms decay,

And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye;

When skin is wrinkled――hair is grey――

Her only chance is then――to dye!

_The Figaro_, January 1, 1873.

――――

STANZAS ON MAN.

_By Dr. Silversmith._

When foolish man consents to marry,

And finds, too late, his wife a shrew,

When she her point in all must carry,

’Tis hard to say what’s best to do!

In hopes the breeches to recover,

To hide his shame from every eye.

To be as free as when her lover

His only method is――to fly.

――――

A BIT OF GOLDSMITH’S WORK NEW GILT.

When lovely woman once so jolly,

Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey,

How make her case less melancholy,

How hide Time’s step that none can stay?

The only way his track to cover,

To mask her age from every eye,

And if she have a spoon for lover

To keep him still “spoons,” is――to dye!

――――

ON A BREACH OF PROMISE.

When lovely woman finds that breaches

Of promise are her suitor’s wear,

What is it the black record bleaches,

And comforts the deserted fair?

To punish the unfaithful lover,

Where only he’ll his falsehood rue,

Substantial damages recover――

Pursue _him_ not, but his purse _sue_!

――――

VENUS IMITATRIX.

[Another Ladies Club is starting at the West-end.――See _Society

Journals_.]

(_Sung by a Clubbess_).

When lovely woman’s melancholy

Because her husband stays away

From home, pursuing some mad folly,

(“’Tis business, love,” they always say).

The only plan to teach him manners,

And cure the midnight latchkey hub,

Is, dears, to march beneath our banners――

So, ladies, come and join our club.

――――

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

When lovely woman longs to marry,

And snatch a victim from the beaux,

What charms the soft design will carry?

What art will make the men propose?

The only art her schemes to cover,

To give her wishes sure success,

To gain, to fix a captive lover,

And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS.

――――

ON MR. ODGER.

(_Formerly Candidate for Southwark._)

When stupid Odger stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,

What thought can make him once more jolly?

What hope can drive his spite away?

The only thought his rage to smother

Is one we’ll hope will turn out true;

’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another;

As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.”

_Judy._

――――

FASHION.

When foolish woman stoops to fashion,

And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay,

But turns her grey, and brings a rash on

Her nose no powder charms away;

What best the horrid tints can cover?

What hide the truth from every eye,

Defying e’en keen sighted lover?

’Tis to _Enamel_ and to _Dye_.

_Grins and Groans_, 1882.

――――

MINT SAUCE FOR LAMB.

(_After Goldsmith._)

When man, less faithful than the colley,

Deserts his love and goes astray,

What art can make the maiden jolly?

What charm can drive her grief away?

The way her grief to overcome is,

Instead of lying down to die,

To claim three thou for breach of promise,

And show her swain the reason why.

_Judy_, August 24, 1881.

――――

WOMAN’S RIGHTS.

[Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought

not to debar her making some proposal.]

When lovely woman’s melancholy,

And finds she’s in a love-sick way,

Must she be bound by custom’s folly,

And never more her love betray?

No! Helen must her heart discover

To Modus; but if all in vain,

And he should scorn to be her lover,

Her sole resource is――try again.

_Fun_, March 25, 1885.

――――

THE OMNIBUS.

(_By an Old Bachelor._)

If lovely woman seeks to enter

The crowded ’bus in which you ride,

Have you the heart to discontent her.

Or would you rather go outside?

I’m brute enough, I dare to state,

Although it may the lady vex,

To keep my seat, and let her wait――

I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex.

_Gossip_, May 16, 1885.

――――

When lovely woman pines in folly

Because her hair is turning gray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can drive her grief away?

The only art her woe to cover,

To hide her age from every eye,

To come the gum-game o’er her lover

And to make her happy――is to dye!

_Detroit Free Press_, August, 1885.

――――

The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked

up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination

of the trial, Foli _v._ Bradshaw, that being an action for

assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:――

“When lovely woman stoops to Foli,

And lets her son with cudgels play,

An action soon brings melancholy,

And damages one has to pay.”

The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to

a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given

together, followed by the French original:――

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran

Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To ev’ry Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew’d the rogues they ly’d;

The man recover’d of the bite,

The dog it was that dy’d.

――――

AN ELEGY.

On the Glory of her Sex,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word――

_From those who spoke her praise_.

The needy seldom passed her door,

And always found her kind;

She freely lent to all the poor――

_Who left a pledge behind_.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning,

And never followed wicked ways――

_Unless when she was sinning_.

At church in silk and satin new,

With hoop of monstrous size;

She never slumbered in her pew――

_But when she shut her eyes_.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;

The King himself has followed her――

_When she has walk’d before_.

But now her wealth, and finery fled,

Her hangers on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead――

_Her last disorder, mortal_.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she lived a twelvemonth more,

_She had not died to-day_!

GOLDSMITH.

――――

The following _Chanson du Fameux la Galisse_, taken from _Ménagiana_,

1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing

poems:――

“LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.”

Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir

L’air du fameux la Galisse,

Il pourra vous rejouir,

_Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse_.

La Gallisse eut peu de bien,

Pour soutenir sa naissance;

Mais il ne manqua de rien,

_Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance_.

Bien instruit dès le berçeau,

Jamais, tant il fut honnête,

Il ne mettoit son chapeau

_Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête_.

Il étoit affable et doux,

De l’humeur de feu son père,

Et n’entroit guère en courroux,

_Si ce n’est dans la colere_.

Il buvoit tous les matins

Un doight tiré de la tonne,

Et mangeant chez les voisins,

_Il s’y trouvoit en personne_.

Il vouloit dans ses repas

Des mets exquis et fort tendres,

Et faisoit son Mardi gras,

_Toujours la veille des Cendres_.

Ses valets étoient soigneux

De le servir d’andouillettes,

Et n’oublioient pas les œufs

_Surtout dans les omelettes_.

De l’inventeur du raisin

Il révéroit la mémoire,

Et pour bien gouter le vin,

_Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire_.

Il disoit que le nouveau

Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce,

Et moins il y mettoit d’eau

_Plus il y trouvoit de force_.

Il consultoit rarement

Hippocrate et sa doctrine,

Et se purgeoit seulement,

_Quand il prenoit médecine_.

Au piquet par tout payis,

Il jouoit suivant sa pante,

Et comptoit quatre vingt dix,

_Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante_.

Il savoit les autres jeux

Qu’on joue à l’Académie,

Et n’etoit pas malheureux

_Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie_.

On s’étonne sans raison

D’une chose très commune;

C’est qu’il vendit sa maison,

_Il faloit qu’il en eut une_.

Il aimoit à prendre l’air,

Quand la saison étoit bonne,

Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver,

_Pour vendanger en automne_.

Il épousa, ce dit on,

Une vertueuse Dame;

S’il avoit vêcu garçon,

_Il n’auroit point eu de femme_.

Il en fut toujours cheri,

Elle n’étoit point jalouse;

Si tot qu’il fut son mari,

_Elle devint son épouse_.

Il passa près de huit ans

Avec elle, fort à l’aise,

En eut jusqu’à huit enfans,

_C’étoit la moitié de seize_.

On dit que dans ses amours,

Il fut caressé des belles,

Que le suivirent toujours,

_Tant qu’il marcha devant elles_.

D’un air galant et badin,

Il courtisoit sa Caliste,

Sans jamais être chagrin

_Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste_.

Il brilloit comme un Soleil,

Sa Chevelure étoit blonde:

Il n’eut pas eu son pareil,

_S’il eût été seul au monde_.

Il eût des talens divers,

Meme on assure une chose,

Quand il écrivoit en vers,

_Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose_.

En matiére de rébus

Il n’avoit pas son semblable:

S’il eût fait des impromtus,

_Il en eût été capable_.

Il savoit un triolet

Bien mieux que sa patenôtre:

Quand il chantoit un couplet,

_Il n’en chantoit pas un autre_.

Il expliqua doctement

La Physique et la Morale.

Et soutint qu’une jument

_Etoit toujours une cavale_.

Par un discours sérieux

Il prouva que la berluë,

Et les autres maux des yeux

_Sont contraires à la vûe_.

Chacun alors applaudit

A sa science inouïe,

Tout homme qui l’entendit,

_N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe_.

Il prétendit en un mois

Lire toute l’Ecriture,

Et l’auroit lue une fois,

_S’il en eût fait la lecture_.

Par son esprit, et son air

Il s’aquit le don de plaire:

Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair

_S’il avoit voulu le faire_.

Mieux que tout autre il savoit

A la Cour jouer son role,

Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit

_Ne disoit une parole_.

Il choisissoit prudemment

De deux choses la meilleure,

Et répétoit fréquemment,

_Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure_.

Il fut à la verité

Un danseur assez vulgaire;

Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté

_S’il avoit voulu se taire_.

Il eut la goute à Paris

Long tems cloué sur sa couche

En y jettant les hauts cris,

_Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche_.

Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs

Il vivoit libre et tranquille,

On auroit perdu son temps

_De le chercher à la ville_.

On raconte, que jamais

Il ne pouvoit se résoudre

A charger ses pistolets

_Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre_.

Un jour il fut assiné

Devant son Juge ordinaire.

S’il eût été condamné

_Il eut perdu son affaire_.

On ne le vit jamais las,

Ni sujet à la paresse,

Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas,

_On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse_.

Il voyageoit volontiers,

Courant partout le Royaume

Quand il étoit à Poitiers

_Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme_.

Il se plaisoit en bateau,

Et soit en paix, soit en guerre,

Il alloit toujours par eau

_A moins qu’il n’alla par terre_.

Une fois s’étant fourré

Dans un profond marécage,

Il y seroit demeuré,

_S’il n’eut pu trouver passage_.

Il fuioit asses l’excês,

Mais dans les cas d’importance,

Quand il se mettoit en frais,

_Il se mettoit en dépense_.

Dans un superbe tournoi

Pret a fournir sa carrière,

Il parut devant le Roi,

_Il n’etoit donc pas derrière_.

Monté sur un cheval noir,

Les Dames le reconnurent,

Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir,

_A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent_.

Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux,

Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre

Il ne renversa que ceux

_Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre_.

C’etoit un homme de cœur

Insatiable de gloire;

Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur

_Il remportoit la victoire_.

Les places qu’il attaquoit

A peine osoient se défendre,

Et jamais il ne manquoit

_Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre_.

Un devin pour deux testons

Lui dit d’une voix hardie,

Qu’il mourroit de là les monts,

_S’il mourrait en Lombardie_.

Il y mourut ce Heros,

Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute;

Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos,

_Aussitot il ne vit goute_.

Il fut par un triste sort,

Blessé d’une main cruelle:

On croit, puisqu’il en est mort,

_Que la plaie etoit mortelle_.

Regretté de ses soldats,

Il mourut digne d’envie

Et le jour de son trépas

_Fut le dernier de sa vie_.

J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits

Qui contiennent son histoire,

Qu’il iroit en Paradis

_S’il etoit en Purgatoire_.

――――

Some verses of this song were translated, and published in _The

Mirror_, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the

original.

THE HAPPY MAN.

La Gallisse now I wish to touch,

Droll air! if I can strike it,

I’m sure the song will please you much;

That is, if you should like it.

La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,

Not used to any dainty,

When he was born――but could not want,

As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,

He always was well-bred,

And never used a hat to wear,

But when ’twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,

Just of his father’s fashion;

And never quarrels broil’d his blood,

Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent,

He kept with care each high day,

And Holy Thursday always spent,

The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,

I just presume to think it;

For ere its flavour he could tell,

He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,

Though food would make him gross;

And never any physic took,

But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain

The ladies so adore;

For many followed in his train,

Whene’er he walk’d before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair

In golden ringlets shone;

And no one could with him compare,

If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,

But every one allows,

That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse

No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,

The learned all declare;

And it was his decision wise,

No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,

Amuse, and much delight.

He prov’d that dimness of the eyes

Was hurtful to the sight.

They lik’d him much――so it appears,

Most plainly――who preferred him;

And those did never want their ears,

Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, ’tis true,

And then he must be wrong;

But none had found it out, he knew,

If he had held his tongue.

Whene’er a tender tear he shed,

T’was certain that he wept;

And he would lay awake in bed,

Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew

His very high renown;

Yet no opponents he o’er-threw,

But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head――

What hero e’re fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead,

They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,

It closed his every strife;

For that sad day that sealed his death,

Deprived him of his life.

――――

Ménage introduces _Le Chanson de la Galisse_ without any other

explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary

character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to

any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson”

written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque

it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice.

And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a

friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la

Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in

his _Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice_; careless of

attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only

recollections of heroic and military virtue.

Concerning this _Chanson de la Palice_ there was a long article in

_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, as far back as July, 1845, from which

the following notes are extracted:――

“Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous

La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not

have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless

it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his

mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that

when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while

drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable

details concerning the habits and character of this great

man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater

claims to admiration which may be brought to light in

illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The

song begins thus:――

‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear

The song of La Palice;

It surely will delight you all,

Provided that it please,’

Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well

to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his

grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after

valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English

Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city,

which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life

of his illustrious enemy.

‘La Palice but little wealth

To his renown could bring;

And when abundance was his lot,

He lacked no single thing.’

Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on

battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say.

He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns

successively invested him with the titles of marshal of

France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and

the Lyonnais.

‘He was versed in all the games

Played at the academy;

And never was unfortunate

When he won the victory.’

Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history.

First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521;

then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in

command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes

of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one

night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because

a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her

walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which

the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French

gentlemen.

‘To do and dare in his career,

He readily inclined;

And when he stood before the king,

He was not, sure, behind.

Fate dealt to him a cruel blow.

And stretched him on the ground;

And ’tis believed that since he died,

It was a mortal wound.

His death was sore and terrible,

Upon a stone his head;

He would have died more easily

Upon a feather bed.’

Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from

the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw

all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier

climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a

tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La

Palice fell senseless to the earth,

‘Deplored and envied by his braves,

He shut his eyes to strife;

And we are told his day of death

Was the last of his life.’

――――:o:――――

THE RIGHT AND MARVELLOUS HISTORY OF

JOHN SMITH.

John Smith he was a guardsman bold,

A stouter never fought;

He would have been a grenadier,

But he was one foot short.

But to a man of John Smith’s mind

The love of power had charms;

So when his captain ordered him,

John Smith order’d his arms.

An active, bustling blade was he,

At drill and eke at mess,

Who never thought to stand at ease

When Captains called out “dress,”

Attentive always to the word,

It never was his wont

To turn his eyes or right or left――

When Captains cried “eyes front!”

Though he was ever thought correct,

Once, during an assault,

He ne’er advanced a single foot――

’Cause he was told to halt.

But still he was not coward called,

Why,――we can soon detect;

His foes all fell dead at his feet,――

When his shots took effect.

But tired of knapsack and of gun

And firing in platoons,

The infantry he quitted when――

He entered the dragoons.

His saddle now became his home,

His horse and he seemed one;

And he was ne’er known to dismount,――

Unless he first got on.

How brave and bold a man he was,

From one small fact is clear;

Whole regiments fled before him when,――

He followed in their rear.

He was a steady soldier then.

And sober too, of course,

And ne’er into a tap-room went,――

Mounted upon his horse.

In fact his conduct was so good,

His Captains all confess

He never got into a scrape,――

Though always in a mess.

Though as to what fights he’d been in

Men differed,――none denied

That the last battle he e’er fought

Was that in which he died.

The soldiers there who saw him fall,

Exclaimed, as with one breath,

“Unless his wound’s a mortal one,

It will not cause his death.”

Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s

Nought but the truth did tell;

But _this_ none ever stopped to read,

Who had not learn’d to spell.

“Stop, passenger, and weep;――one tear

To him you can’t refuse,

Who stood――high in his regiment,

And five feet in his shoes.”

_The Comic Magazine_, 1834.

――――

A HISTORY.

There was a man, so legends say,

And he――how strange to tell!――

Was born upon the very day,

Whereon his birthday fell.

He was a baby first. And then

He was his parents’ joy;

But was a man soon after, when

He ceased to be a boy.

And when he got to middle life,

To marry was his whim;

The self-same day he took a wife,

Some woman wedded him.

None saw him to the other side

Of Styx by Charon ferried;

But ’tis conjectured that he died

Because he has been buried.

TOM HOOD, the younger.

_The Century Magazine_ for November, 1883, contained an _Elegy on

Mrs. Grimes_, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s

Elegy on Madam Blaize.

――――:o:――――

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.

Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign.

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;

A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray,

That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay;

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:

The Royal game of goose was there in view,

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;

The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,

And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face:

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d,

And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;

A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay

A cap by night――a stocking all the day!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

――――

BEAUTIES OF THE GREAT MASTERS.

THE STREET ARTIST.

Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way,

Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay;

Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain,

Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane;

There on a wintry morning, clad in rags,

The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags――

A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks,

Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks;

And o’er the pavement――green, and blue, and red――

In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread;

Maxims of charity were there in view,

And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew,

Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice),

And great Napoleon showed his well-known face――

The morn was cold――he takes with down-cast eye

The offerings of the pitying passers-by――

How changed the scene, when, to his home returned,

He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned――

With steaks and beer his vigour is restored,

And crack companions grace his festive board――

He dons a coat――his rags he throws away――

A swell by night――a beggar all the day.

_The Month._ By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.

――――:o:――――

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The following imitation was originally published by Messrs.

Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.

THE DOOMED VILLAGE.

A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.

“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,”

Could thy true Poet visit earth again,

How would his patriot spirit grieve to see

A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee!

The decent church abandoned to the owl,

The ruined parsonage, the roofless school,

The village of its preacher’s voice bereft,

The little flock without a shepherd left,

Without “the man to all the country dear,”

Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer;

“Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

Still in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.”

Will then the State suppress the godly man,

And bid him buy his dwelling if he can,

That hospitable roof and open door

Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor,

Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid

Which pious ages gifts to God had made,

Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost,

His faith unaided and his altar lost,

To quit for distant lands his long-loved home,

Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome?

Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust

That Royal womanhood will still be just?

Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown,

And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?

The man of State who wants a heart to feel

Wants that which most concerns the public weal;

No nice distinction will he stoop to make

Between the power to seize, and right to take.

“The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we

Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.”

False allegations then a pretext yield;

And Ahab takes possession of the field.

Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind;

No law can fix him, and no treaty bind;

He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal,

And bids him trust in voluntary zeal,

Go beg the bread that has been all his own,

Along a road untravelled and unknown,

Ardent alike to pare a Church away,

And lay a tax for charities to pay.

Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan?

Whither are Equity and Pity flown?

Are all the virtues melted down in one,

Of neutral colour much resembling none?

A large, loose, LIBERALITY of mind,

True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind.

Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known,

And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne;

Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right,

And Policy disdained to side with spite,

Not hounding on the envious pack which pant

To tear away the bone they do not want,

Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up,

As if they all still mantled in the cup,

And loved by antiquated tales to shew,

How Britain always has been Erin’s foe;

Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief,

And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.

Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired,

By many hearts revered, by all admired;

In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone;

Will Erin cease to claim them for her own?

Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name,

Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame?

Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot,

With the blest book he gave the Irish cot?

Will it grate harshly on her altered ear,

Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear?

Will she no longer boast that God had given

“To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?”

Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been,

The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen?

Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart?

Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart,

The signs and records of an alien band,

Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land?

“It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream

Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim;

“It was your fathers then that fouled it so,”

Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.”

The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl

Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl;

In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife,

And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life,

An offering to peace, a needful feast,

To stay the hunger of the savage beast.

The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries,

Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device,

The struggles of the bleeding victim mock,

And join the wolf in ravaging the flock.

But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end,

And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend,

Raise many a champion through the land to lead

A growing host for poverty to plead,

The sacred voice of conscience wake within,

Forbid the fatal policy of sin,

Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate,

Calm down the public mind, and save the State.

Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far

Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war,

Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky

On the self-immolated quarry fly.

So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand!

Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand;

So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep,

Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep;

So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride,

By justice checked, within its banks subside;

So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit,

Revived and cherished, well its place befit,

And through the time to come serenely bright

Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.

Immortal Light, that can’st alone control

The brutal instincts of the savage soul,

’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife

The deep significance of human life,

Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God,

The awful sanctions of HIS penal code;

Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read,

The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.

――――

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain,

Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid,

And the rich summer dinner-tables laid.

Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease,

Seats of my youth when every card could please,

How often have I done thy park so green

Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene;

How often have I paused the throng to tell,

Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell,

The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill,

The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill,

The moving row with spots beneath the shade

For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made:

How often have I blest the late-born day,

When play remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village swells from dinner free,

Led up the sports that fashion loves to see,

While much flirtation circled in the shade,

The young ones spooning as the old surveyed,

And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground,

And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round;

And still as each repeated partner tired,

Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired.

The dancing man, who simply sought renown

By leading all the cotillons in town,

The swain mistrustful of his smutty face,

While secret riddles tittered round the place,

The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love,

The chaperons who would those looks reprove,

These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these

With sweet succession taught e’en town to please,

These round thy bowers their genial influence shed,

These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,

Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn,

Within thy doors upholsterers are seen,

And water-carts alone the park keep green;

Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain,

Of all thy people none with thee remain.

No more thy babbling talk reflects the day,

But in the country winds its shallow way;

Along thy park a solitary guest,

A sole policeman now laments the rest,

Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils,

Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils;

Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all,

And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball,

And trembling, lest they last should join the band,

Far, far away, thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey,

Where working men increase and swells decay,

Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade,

Hardy may make them as Walpole has made,

But fashionable swells, their country’s pride,

Once out of town can never be supplied.

_The Tomahawk_, September 7, 1867.

――――

The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of _The Mirror_:

“Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office

has contributed:――

LONDON IN SEPTEMBER

(Not in 1831),

By Lord John Russell.

(After _The Traveller_, by _Oliver Goldsmith_).

“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

A single horseman passes Rotten row;

In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse

The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news.

At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass

To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass;

The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare

To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square.

From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy,

And seeks――Oh bliss――the Molly――_a tempora fandi_.

Meantime the battered pavement is at rest,

And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest,

Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long,

Have all left town to join the Margate throng.

The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore

Displays and drives his blue barouche and four,

The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun,

Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”

――――:o:――――

THE HERMIT.

This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,”

which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of

having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders

Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St.

James’s Chronicle:

“A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a

ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious

Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance

between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his

ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years

ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles

at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I

saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of

Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his

little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved

it.”

In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note

to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to

declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had

been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both

indebted to the beautiful old ballad _Gentle Herdsman_. This ballad is

reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s _The Hermit_, and a few verses from

Bishop Percy’s _Friar of Orders Gray_.

It will be seen that although the poems have several points of

resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.

“GENTLE HERDSMAN TELL TO ME.”

Gentle herdsman, tell to me,

Of curtesy I thee pray――

Unto the _towne_ of _Wallsingham_

Which is the right and ready way?

“Unto the _towne_ of Walsingham,

The way is hard for to be gone,

And very crooked are those _pathes_

For you to find out all alone.”

Were the miles doubled _thrise_

And the way never so ill,

It were not enough for mine offence;

It is so _grevous_ and so ill.

“Thy _yeares_ are young, thy face is _faire_,

Thy wits are _weake_, thy thoughts are _greene_;

Time hath not given thee leave as yet

For to commit so great a _sinne_!”

Yes, herdsman, yes, _soe_ wou’dst thou say,

If thou knewest so much as I;

My wits, and _thoughtes_, and all the rest,

Have well deserved for to dye.

I am not what I _seeme_ to _bee_,

My cloths and _sexe doe_ differ _fare_;

I am a woman, woe _is mee_!

Born to _greeffe_, and irksome care.

For my beloved, and well beloved,

My wayward cruelty could kill;

And though my _teares_ will naught avail,

Most _dearely_ I bewail him still.

He was the flower of noble wights,

None ever more sincere _colde bee_,

Of _comelye_ mien and shape he was,

And _tenderlye_ he loved _mee_.

When thus I _sawe_ he loved me well,

I grew so _proude_ his _paine_ to see,

That I, who did not know _myselfe_,

Thought _scorne_ of such a youth as _hee_.

And grew so coy, and nice to please,

As women’s _lookes_ are often _soe_,

He might not _kisse_, nor hand forsooth,

_Unlesse_ I willed him _soe_ to _doe_.

Thus being _wearyed_ with _delayes_,

To see I _pityed_ not his _greeffe_,

He goes him to a _secret_ place,

And there he dyed without _releeffe_.

And for his sake these _weedes_ I _weare_,

And sacrifice my tender age;

And every day I’ll beg my bread,

To _undergoe_ this pilgrimage.

Thus every day I’ll fast and _praye_,

And ever will do till I _dye_;

And get me to some _secrett_ place,

For so did _hee_, and _soe_ will I.

Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,

But keep my _secretts_ I thee pray;

Unto the _towne_ of Wallsingham

Shew _me the_ right and _readye waye_.

“Now _goe_ thy _wayes_, and God before,

For he must ever guide thee still;

Turn down the dale the _righte_ hand _pathe_,

And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”

――――:o:――――

THE HERMIT.

“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

“For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go.”

“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,

“To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

“Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still:

And though my portion is but scant

I give it with good will.

“Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate’er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

“No flocks that range the valley free,

To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them:

“But from the mountain’s grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

“Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego;

All earthborn cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long.”

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master’s care;

The wicket, opening with a latch

Received the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The Hermit trimmed his little fire,

And cheered his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil’d;

And skill’d in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguil’d.

Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;

The cricket churrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To sooth the stranger’s woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spy’d,

With answ’ring care opprest:

“And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d

“The sorrows of thy breast?

“From better habitations spurn’d,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,

Or unregarded love?

“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

“And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

“And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair-one’s jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle’s nest.

“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex” he said

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray’d.

Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;

Like colours o’er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest,

A maid in all her charms.

“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn.” she cried;

“Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside.

“But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray:

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

“My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark’d as mine

He had but only me.

“To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber’d suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign’d a flame.

“Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,

But never talk’d of love.

“In humblest, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor pow’r had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

“And when, beside me in the dale,

He carol’d lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.[11]

“The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of Heav’n refin’d,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

“The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

“For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch’d my heart

I triumph’d in his pain.

“Till quite dejected with my scorn

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay:

I’ll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

“And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I’ll lay me down and die;

’Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.”

“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,

And clasped her to his breast:

The wandering fair one turned to chide;――

’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.

“Turn Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor’d to love and thee.

“Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev’ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life――my all that’s mine?

“No never, from this hour to part

We’ll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”

――――:o:――――

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient English

Poetry_ with the following note:――

“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable

little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of

which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the

most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was

tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental

stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a

little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s

candour.”

It was a friar of orders gray

Walkt forth to tell his beades;

And he met with a lady faire

Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.

“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see?”

“And how should I know your true love

From many another one?”

“O, by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his sandal shoone.”[12]

“But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so faire to view,

His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d,

And eyne of lovely blue.”

O, lady he is dead and gone!

Lady, he’s dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turfe,

And at his heels a stone.

“Within these holy cloysters long

He lanquisht, and he dyed,

Lamenting of a ladyes love,

And ’playning of her pride.”

* * * * *

“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone!

And dids’t thou dye of love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone!”

“O, weep not, lady, weep not soe;

Some ghostly comfort seek;

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Ne tears bedew thy cheek.”

“O, do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;

For I have lost the sweetest youth,

That e’er wan ladyes love.

And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,

I’ll evermore weep and sigh;

For thee I only wisht to live,

For thee I wish to dye.”

(Eleven stanzas here omitted.)

* * * * *

“O, stay me not, thou holy friar;

O stay me not, I pray;

No drizzly rain that falls on me,

Can wash my fault away.”

“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;

For see, beneath this gown of gray

Thy own true-love appears.

Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;

And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

But haply, for my year of grace[13]

Is not yet past away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay.

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part.

――――

THE HERMIT.

_A Prophetic Ballad._

“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where some shanty cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

“For as, forlorn and lost, I tread

This weary waste, and slow,

My skirts immeasurably spread

Impede me as I go.”

“Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries,

“My roof shall give thee shade;

I call thee girl, although mine eyes

Behold no tender maid.

“But, exiled from the world, I find――

However old she be――

That any one of womankind

Is as a girl to me.

“A kiss I beg, just one! what no?

Is kissing then so wrong?

Man wants a little here below

Though not perhaps, for long.

“Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare

My modesty invade!”

Fury inspired the conscious fair,

And fury her betrayed.

That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast,

Those thewy, threatening arms!

The lonely stranger stands confest――

A man in all his charms.

“And, ah! excuse a stranger rude,

A hunted wretch,” he cried;

“Indeed I hope I don’t intrude

Where you in peace reside.

“But pity a poor trader who

Has mixed in public fray,

And learned what politics can do

In leading men astray,

“My chief the Land League party led

In Parliament and out,

And by his side I fought and bled

With constancy devout.

“Pretenders to the Chiefship came

To win me from his band;

But still I loved but Parnell’s name

And bow’d to his command.

“And length to ’scape arrest, one morn

He deemed it best to hide;

And sought some solitude forlorn

In secret, where he died.

“Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught

In feminine array

And seek the solitude he sought

To stretch me where he lay.

“There, my identity thus hid

I’ll lay me down and die

For Ireland so my Parnell did

And so for him will I.”

“Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried,

And clasped him to his breast

The wondering stranger turn’d to chide

’Twas Parnell’s self that prest!

“Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear!

My comrade turn to see

Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here,

True to the League and thee!”

_The St. James’s Gazette_, February 28, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE SPEAKER’S DINNER.

The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem

_Retaliation_, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in

1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by

several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former

Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have

already been quoted in _Parodies_; they have nearly all a strong party

bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians

alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to

1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of

Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord

Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the

witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett,

an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount

Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857;

Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died

1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett,

M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and

Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833.

Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited,

Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;

If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes,

We’ll serve up _ourselves_ for the rest of the dishes.

Our L――v――rp――l’s beef at the top let us find,

Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind:

Let C――strl――gh’s turtle at bottom be placed,

Restoring the system and pleasing the taste:

And Gr――nv――lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on,

The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton,

Our C――nn――ng is salt; for his talents are such

That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch,

While B――rd――tt resembles the onion that throws

A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes.

With a chicken well boiled, gentle S――dm――th will treat us,

And Cr――k――r shall serve for our Irish potatoes:

Brown stout shall be Wh――tbr――d, the dregs of the cup,

And Shr――d――n, spruce, not sufficiently up.

Push about, Mr. Speaker――I’ll sit, if I’m able,

Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table;

And while they are lying unconscious before us,

We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us.

Now L――v――rp――l’s Earl lies along at our feet,

Who was eloquent often, and always discreet.

If failings he had, he has left us in doubt,

Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out,

But Scandal has said, he had more admiration

For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation.

Here sleeps the bold Wh――tbr――d, whose temper was such

That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much:

Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind,

And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind:

Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat

In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote:

Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far

That his passion for peace kept him always at war:

Though equal to most things, for all things unfit;

Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit:

Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent,

And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:――

So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season,

Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason.

Here C――tl――r――gh lies, with a mind like the mint,

Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t.

His well-bred demeanour still bore him along

Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng,

Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend,

He softened the means, but to strengthen the end.

Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone?

His country will tell you――for all was her own.

Here slumbers poor Sh――rry, whose fate I must sigh at!

Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet.

What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle!

Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle!

Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall,

Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal!

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick,

But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,

As often we wished to have Dick back again.

Here S――dm――th reposes, whose virtues and parts

Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts:

A friend of religion, who made it his care

To live as men ought to be, not as they are.

Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line,

And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine.

To a coming millenium has fashioned his views,

Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews.

Say, where has his genius this malady caught,

Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault?

Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind

To estimate coolly the mass of mankind,

Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf,

At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself?

Here B――rd――tt retires, from his rows to relax,

The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks.

O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade;

Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid!

When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town,

I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own;

But wanting the aid of this giant detractor,

The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture;

The lightnings of G――rr――w may slumber at length,

And the thunder-toned justice of Ell――nb’r――gh’s strength;

The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition,

No leader remaining to spur their ambition;

Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark,

And C――bb――tt meet W――thm――n, and wail in the dark!

Here sleeps my Lord Gr――nv――lle, describe him who can,

A compression of all that was solid in man.

For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine:

For head, if not first, in the very first line,

Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition,

He was duped by his own over-weening ambition;

Like Satan of old from authority fell,

And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell.

In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder:

’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder:

For, straining too far to secure the command,

He cut off all hope from himself and his band,

Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in,

Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win.

He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack――

But found not the secret to whistle them back,

He loved popularity, swallow’d what came,

And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame;

Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone,

And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan.

Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews,

He paid for their praises by sending them news.

Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave!

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How aptly, on _both_ sides, the eulogy fitted,

When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted;

But peace to his errors, whatever his fate,

For his former deserts had been many and great:

The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill,

Shall plead his apology, happen what will;

His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve,

And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above.

Here Cr――k――r reclines, a most smart, clever creature,

And ev’n opposition allow him good nature.

He was true to his country, his friends, and his king:

Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing,

Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit?

Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit.

Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat?

I do not intend to impeach him of that.

Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day,

And so became careless and indolent? Nay,

Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it――

He was――could he help it?――by nature _a poet_!

Here C――nn――ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind,

He has not left a brighter or better behind:

His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand,

His character cordial, attaching, and bland:

Still born to improve us in every part,

His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart.

The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits,

He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits;

When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore,

He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!――

[Illustration]

THE HERMIT OF VAUXHALL.[15]

(_A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith._)

Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall,

And let me know the way

In which, within that cavern small,

You pass your time away.

There’s nothing but a little lamp,

A pitcher and a cat!

The place must be extremely damp――

Why don’t you wear a hat?

No chaff, my son, the hermit cries,

But walk your chalks along;

Your path to the rotunda lies――

They’re going to sing a song.

Father, I care not for the strain

Of that young girl in blue,

But, if you please, I will remain,

And have a chat with you.

My son, you surely wish to hear

The music of the band;

But if you stop――a drop of beer

I think you ought to stand.

Father, to grant what you require,

I’ll not a moment fail;

Here, waiter, bring the holy friar

A pint of Burton ale.

The waiter brought the welcome draught,

I took a little sup;

The liquor then the hermit quaff’d,

He fairly mopped it up.

Father, I cried, now if you please,

Philosophy we’ll talk――

As the wind murmurs through the trees,

Skirting the long dark walk.

My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage,

Nor on me make a call――

My life is but a pilgrimage

From Lambeth to Vauxhall.

At eve when shops their shutters shut,

And tolls the curfew bell,

I quit my room in the New Cut,

To sit within this cell.

A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese

My landlady provides,

Save, what to give the public please,

I’ve nothing, son, besides.

Father, your salary, of course,

You must receive, I said;

Your sitting here is not by force:

How do you get your bread?

The sage replied, Alas, my son,

I light the lamps by day――

The hermit’s work, at evening done,

Brings me no extra pay.

And get you cheese alone to eat,

I asked the good old man.

Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat

From baked potato can.

The luxury sometimes I bring

With butter――a small lump,

With water from the crystal spring

That rises ’neath our pump.

Father, I cried, your tale is long,

You tire my patience quite;

I’m off to hear the comic song,

Lull-li-e-tee, good night,

GILBERT A. A’BECKETT.

From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_, 1845.

――――:o:――――

In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home,

Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte,

Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing

contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner,

in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and

elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

(As it might have been constructed in 1744.

Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and

Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise:

Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies!

’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys

Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:

Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,

Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.

There, where affection warms the father’s breast.

There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest:

Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind

Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,

Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,

The light of heav’n upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft,

Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left,

We long, obedient to our nature’s law,

To see again our hovel thatched with straw:

See birds that know our avenaceous store

Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:

But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,

His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.

From _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1881.

――――:o:――――

A BRAND-NEW SONG,

(After Goldsmith.)

(_On the Speaker of the House of Commons,

Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch

at the Folly Theatre._)

When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly,

And finds with tickers roughs make way,

What charm can soothe his melancholy――

Can _Laughing gas_ his loss repay?

The only way to hide vexation,

To shield himself from pungent chaff,

Save dignity of House and nation,

And keep his temper, is――to laugh.

_Punch_, May 5, 1877.

――――

ON MR. WARTON, M.P.

When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff,

He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,

――――:o:――――

In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published

by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the

satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was

Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the

profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted

the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an

unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced

himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of

him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In

1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled _The

Devil_, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the

Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the

actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion

frequently made by elderly people even in these days.

INNOVATION.

Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town,

Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown,

I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid,

When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d:

Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze,

Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please;

How often happier than a king or queen,

While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene.

How often have I paused on ev’ry charm,

The speaking silence, the expression warm,

The never-failing start, the gushing tear,

The broken accents trembling on the ear;

The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade,

Impervious scene for love or murder made;

How often have I blessed the parting day,

When, tea removed, I hurried to the play;

And both the galleries, from labour free,

Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee;

While many a first appearance has been made,

The young contending as the old survey’d,

And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground,

While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round;

And still as each repeated effort tir’d,

The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d.

The rival Romeos that sought renown,

By holding out, to tire each other down;

The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face;

While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place;

The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love,

The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove:

These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these,

With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please.

These round the theatre alternate shed

Laughter and tears――but all these charms are fled.

Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town,

Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down.

’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen,

And critic fury tears away the green;

Monopoly now grasps the whole domain,

And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain.

No wit or humour marks the lively play,

But puns and quibbles make their saucy way;

Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest,

Dull Declamation snores herself to rest.

The place of elegance a stare supplies,

And affectation that nor laughs nor cries.

Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all,

For he acts best who can the loudest bawl;

Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage,

To fright astonish’d reason from the stage.

Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey,

Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay;

Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade,

A puff can make them, as a puff has made,

But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride,

When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.

* * * * *

Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close,

Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose;

There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow,

In Hamlet――looked unutterable woe!

Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved,

Barry grew agonised in――“not much mov’d.”

There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court,

Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport.

There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn.

Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn.

There the apt tune in timely moment play’d,

To fill each pause the _exeunt_ had made.

But now simplicity’s soft accents fail,

And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail.

No friends to Nature on the boards now tread,

But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled!

* * * * *

Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet,

Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street,

There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool,

Good Master Shuter first was put to school.

Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low,

“Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.”

Well did the tittering audience love to trace

The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face;

Well would the busy whisper circle round,

When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d;

Yet he was kind――but if absurd in aught,

The love he bore to blackguards was in fault.

The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew,

’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too.

While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound,

Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around:

And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew,

That one droll head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame――the Rose and Crown,

Where he so oft got tipsy――is burnt down.

Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high,

Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye;

Dull is that dressing-room――by Quin inspir’d,

Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d;

When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound,

And apt quotations――meant for wit――went round;

Imagination fondly stoops to trace,

The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place;

The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,

The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door:

The clothes――their different duties made to pay,

To deck the stage by night, the street by day;

The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan,

Garrick i’ the lanthorn――Quin in the sedan;

The toilet stocked to decorate the play,

Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay;

While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show,

Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row.

Vain transitory splendours could not all

Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall.

Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name,

For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame;

To paltry players, no more shall he impart

An hour’s delight to the convivial heart:

Thither no more shall witty lords repair,

To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care!

No more the anecdote, the luscious tale,

The mirth-inspiring _good-thing_ shall prevail;

No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer,

Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear;

Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found,

Careful to see the chuckling fun go round;

Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried,

Shall blush to speak a _smutty speech aside_.

――――:o:――――

There was another Poem written in imitation of _The Deserted Village_

entitled “_The Frequented Village_, a Poem dedicated to Oliver

Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does

not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British

Museum.

Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of

his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T.

Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called,

was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation

of the style of _The Deserted Village_, whilst another part, deploring

the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a

Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor

Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest.

――――:o:――――

THE DESERTED SCHOOL.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go,

And onward where one hears that dismal yell

Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,”

Or where that dear old School forsaken lies

A weary waste expanding to the skies.

Where’er I roam whatever realms to see,

My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;

My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain,

“Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.

* * * * *

And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall

To see humanity of man so small;

To turn us all away from that dear School,

And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool.

But my worn soul now deems it for the best

At Kensington to see my fellows blest.

JAMES E. THOMPSON.

From _Pauline_, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School, in the City

of London, October, 1885.

――――:o:――――

The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one

which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson

Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English

speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and

was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty

facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr.

Elliot Stock.

A dramatic version of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, by W. G. Wills,

entitled _Olivia_, has for some time past been attracting large

audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen

Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of

_Olivia_ tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8,

1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a

Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was

produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour,

or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of

Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the

entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary

caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a

perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures,

movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully

sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration

to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors

of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the

original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while

the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and

moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible

old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows

that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get

his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself,

under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is

another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s

titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the

virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London,

especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him

to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover

Burchell’s identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of

catching him matrimonially.

The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:――

THE VICAR OF

WIDEAWAKEFIELD,

OR

THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE,

Written by H. P. STEPHENS & W. YARDLEY,

The Original Music by FLORIAN PASCAL.

The Dances arranged by Madame KATTI LANNER.

The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. BANKS.

CHARACTERS.

Dr. Primrose (Vicar of Wideawakefield) Mr. A. ROBERTS

Squire Thornhill Miss VIOLET CAMERON

Mr. Burchell Mr. T. SQUIRE

Moses } { Mr. J. JARVIS

Bill } The Vicar’s Sons { Miss M. PEARCE

Dick } { Miss G. TYLER

Leigh (a Vagabond) Miss LESLEY BELL

Farmer Flamborough Mr. CORRY

Mrs. Primrose Miss HARRIET COVENEY

Olivia } { Miss LAURA LINDEN

Sophia } her Daughters { Miss AGNES HEWITT

Polly Flamborough Miss SYLVIA GREY

Gipsy Woman Miss M. RAYSON

In _The Retaliation_ Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some

severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by

Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and

therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies

of his works:――

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE,

Here, _Hermes_ says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow,

Go, fetch me some clay――I will make an odd fellow:

Right and wrong shall be jumbled,――much gold and some dross:

Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross;

Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions,

A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions;

Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking,

Turn’d to _learning_ and _gaminq_, _religion_ and _raking_.

With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;

Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;

That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail,

Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail;

For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it,

This _Scholar_, _Rake_, _Christian_, _Dupe_, _Gamester_, and _Poet_;

Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,

And among brother mortals――be GOLDSMITH his name;

When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,

You――_Hermes_――shall fetch him――to make us sport here.

[Illustration]

Thomas Campbell,

_Born July_ 27, 1777. _Died June_ 15, 1844.

[Illustration: H]aving already given Parodies of several of the most

celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn

now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and

writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his

poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very

frequently parodied.

Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved

remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the

Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham.

His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed

Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the

New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting

articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of

genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the

duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not

surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington

Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that

her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she

replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write

so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to

consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with

their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great

Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied,

“How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality,

not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a

cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom

Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”

Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are

Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s

Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so

often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.”

――――:o:――――

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!

And I’ll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle,

This dark and stormy water?”

“Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.”

“And fast before her father’s men

Three days we’ve fled together,

For should he find us in the Glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride!

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight

“I’ll go, my chief――I’m ready:――

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heav’n each face

Grew dark as they were speaking,

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather;

I’ll meet the raging of the skies:

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather’d o’er her.

And still they row’d amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was chang’d to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade

His child he did discover:――

One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried in grief,

Across this stormy water:

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!――Oh my daughter!”

’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,

Return or aid preventing:――

The waters wild went o’er his child――

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――:o:――――

SIR ROBERT’S BILL.[16]

Sir Robert, to the Commons bound,

Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry,

And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round,

If now my bill you’ll carry!”

“And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’

_My own peculiar treasure_?”

“Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel,

That does just what’s my pleasure.

And fast before the _farmers’ friends_,

I’ve fled in _your direction_――

And, should they gain their private ends,

My bill would meet rejection!”

“George Bentinck follows fast along,

From him great harm I feel, Sir,

And, should he prove so _very_ strong,

Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?”

Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then――

“I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready――

It is not for _yourself_, ye ken,

But for the League so seedy!

“And, by my word, the Cotton Lords

In danger shall not tarry――

And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords,

Your measure I will carry!”

“Then haste ye, haste, and no more words,

Nor wait till it be calmer――

I’ll meet the raging of the Lords,

But not an angry farmer!”

The stormy Council Peel has left,

A stormy House before him――

And see, the Tories, all a drift,

Have soon begun to bore him.

Yet still he waged the wordy war,

With foemen justly railing――

Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,”

From wrath he turned to wailing.

For on that night in dismal plight,

Sir Peel he saw to sob then――

One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright,

And one was round his Cobden!

“Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief,

Across the stormy lobby,

“We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief,

Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!”

’Twas true――the turn-coats vainly rave,

Protection’s friends preventing,

The Tories brave kick’d out the knave,

And he was left repenting.

From _Protectionist Parodies_, by “A Tory.”

Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.

――――:o:――――

JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER.

A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,

And I’ll give thee a silver dime

To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now, who would cross the Ohio,

This dark and stormy water?”

“O, I am this young lady’s beau,

And she, John Thompson’s daughter.

“We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite

With great precipitation,

And should he find us here to-night,

I’d lose my reputation.

“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside,

His horsemen hard have pressed me,

And who will cheer my bonny bride,

If yet they shall arrest me?”

Out spoke the boatman then in time,

“You shall not fail, don’t fear it;

I’ll go, not for your silver dime,

But for your manly spirit.

“And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

For though a storm is coming on,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose,

The boat was at the landing,

And with the drenching rain their clothes

Grew wet where they were standing,

But still, as wilder rose the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Just back a piece came the police,

Their tramping sounded nearer.

“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“It’s anything but funny;

I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,

But not my Father’s money!”

And still they hurried in the face

Of wind and rain unsparing;

John Thompson reached the landing place,

His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning’s angry flash,

His child he did discover;

One lovely hand held all the cash,

And one was round her lover!

“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe.

Across the stormy water,

“But leave the purse, and you may go,

My daughter, Oh! my daughter!”

Twas vain, they reached the other shore,

(Such dooms the Fates assign us),

The gold he piled went with his child,

And he was left there, _minus_.

From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey.

Boston, United States, 1854.

――――

LAMBETH FERRY.

A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town

Cried “Boatman do not tarry:

I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown

To row me over with Mary.”

“Now who be he vould cross the Thames

Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?”

“Vy Billy Downey is my name,

And this is Black Joe’s Daughter.

“Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys!

An hour we’ve run away, man!

Should they catch us they’d make a noise,

And my poor back vould pay, man.”

Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull;

Jump in my boat, be jolly;

It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull,

But for your charming Polly.

“And so help me tater, the darlen creetur,

Though in danger you have brought her,

But if it should rain both cats and dogs,

I’ll row you o’er the vater.”

And then the vind it howled apace,

The rain vas fast a pattering.

They stared in each other’s face

As they stood there a chattering.

And still as the rain made more noise,

And as the vind blow’d hoarser,

They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys

As if they vos coming closer.

“Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said,

“Though the veather be ever so cold, man,

I’d rather meet a vatery bed

Than meet my angry old man.”

The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore,

They pulled away, ahoy! sir,

Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand,

They run against a buoy, sir.

My eyes! how the wild waves did roar,

Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying,

Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore,

Ven he begun a-crying.

For ven towards the wreck he look’d

His child he did discover.

Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d

Tother vos round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,”

“Come back, vot are you arter,

And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey,

My daughter! oh, my daughter.”

But a wave came vot upset the boat

In the vater they vos drivelling.

Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat,

And he began a snivelling!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE NEW LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry;

And I’ll give thee a silver pound

To row us o’er the ferry.”

The boatman did not even smile,

But looked across the water;

He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,

And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“Oh, haste thee!――haste!” the lady cried,

“This youth and I, eloping,

Would cross at once to t’other side,

So aid us in our sloping!”

The boatman budged no inch, and then

The clue Lord U. discovers;

And down the glen ride armed men,

And catch the brace of lovers.

“Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief,

“If I were free I’d show ye”――

“_We’d rather dee on Loch Maree

Than on the Sawbath row ye!_”

_Funny Folks_, July 13, 1878.

――――:o:――――

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d,

Each horseman drew his battle blade,

And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n

Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n,

And louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flash’d the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,

On Linden’s hills of stained snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens, on ye brave,

Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet,

Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the

French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians.

Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is

therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be

so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of

the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory

was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very

great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical

allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and

the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called

true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer

in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically

faulty, and proposed it should be altered to:

“And every sod beneath their feet

Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”

――――

BANNOCKBURN.

(_An imitation of Hohenlinden._)

Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave

The rising sun its radiance gave,

Upon the armour of the brave

That burned for battle brilliantly.

And Scotland by that soaring sun

Beheld her brightest day begun――

Her greenest wreath of glory won

By deeds of dauntless bravery.

On Bannockburn’s camp covered field

The men of war were met to wield,

With hostile hand, the sword and shield,

For conquest or for liberty!

How gaily glanced that field before

Began the battle’s rage and roar!

That reddened with the reeking gore

As raved the dreadful revelry.

The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high,

St. George! for Edward was the cry,

And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky,

St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty!

Then closed the conflict deep and dread!

Then strained the bow and struck the blade,

Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed,

As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry!

What feelings fired each hero’s heart,

For conquest or a country’s part,

As from each eye the flash did dart,

That spoke the spirits enmity:

But fast the Southrons fell and fled

Where Bruce――brave Bruce! his patriots led,

And Scotland’s lion rampant――red

Pranced proudly on to victory!

And may each land, as Scotland, scorn

The tyrant’s threat――his thraldom spurn

With such success as Bannockburn

Of dear and deathless memory!

ARCHIE ALIQUIS.

From _The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties_. Printed by Edward

Lacey, 1825.

――――

THE BATTLE OF PEAS HILL.

“The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of

November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all

CANTABS, as long as there shall be a SNOB or _Radical_ amongst them,

or a fist to bate them with. This is the only _Matriculation Day_

which is registered in _letters_ of blood in the archives of the

Vice-Chancellor; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be,

such an occasion for calling FRESHMEN from the science of _mechanics_

to the application of its _theory_ in the _science of war_.”

On Granta, when the sun was low,

No symptoms lower’d of fearless row,

But all was silent as the flow

Of CAMUS rolling _tardily_.

But Granta saw another sight,

When Radicals presumed at night,

With _Carter’s_[17] mutton-wicks to light

Their Caroline’s base treachery.

Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d,

Each GOWNSMAN rush’d the cause to aid,

And fast about him each one laid,

With blows that told most terribly.

Then rushing forth the SNOBS among,

Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung,

And loud and clear the market rung,

With shouts of dreadless liberty.

But redder yet shall be each cheek,

And louder yet each tongue shall speak,

And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak

His vengeance most undauntedly.

’Tis rushlight all――but what can shew

The GOWNSMAN from the GOWNSMAN’S foe,

As shouting in thick files they go

To battle all so merrily?

No banners there were waving high,

To cheer the brave to victory,

No pennon floating to the sky,

With rare device wrought curiously.

No plumes of crested pride were seen,

But tassels black of silken sheen,

With gold and silver mix’d between,

Emblems of unanimity!

No sound was heard of martial drum,

No bugle blast, but one wild hum

Floated o’er all: “The SNOBS! they come,

On! on! and meet them cheerily.”

And then was shout, and noise, and din,

As rallying forwards poured in,

Hundreds and hundreds to begin

The work of fame so gloriously.

Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight,

The tall――the low――the strong――the light;

And, oh! it was a glorious sight,

That strife of TOWN and GOWN to see.

As fist to fist, rais’d high in air,

And face to face opposed were,

As shone the conflict in the glare

Of lights that told of Bergami.

Then rushed to fight the hardy SOPH,

Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff,

As one by one they sallied forth

To war in ambush warily.

Then rush’d the FRESHMAN to essay

His maiden valour in the fray,

And who that valour shall gainsay,

And wrong not such effrontery?

Then with one cry so loud and shrill,

It echoed to the CASTLE HILL,

They charged the SNOBS against their will,

And shouted clear and lustily.

Then all distinctions were forgot――

Then, silk and velvet had one lot

With _tatter’d stuffs_, upon that spot

Which sacred was to bravery.

No signs of fear, no signs of dread,

Of bloody nose or broken head,

Of wretch by Proctors homeward led

For “acting contumaciously.”

No thoughts were there, but such as grace

The memory of that crowded place,

The memory of that gallant race

Who _took_ and _gave_ so heartily.

The combat deepens; on, ye brave,

Who rush to conquest, or to save;

Wave all your _stuffs_ and _poplins_ wave!

And charge with all your chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet,

Dull soon shall be each crowded street,

Responsive, now, to thousand feet

Pursuing on to Victory.

From _The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, by a Brace of Cantabs,

John Hearne, London, 1824.

――――

JENNY-LINDEN.

A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet

Bunn.

On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low,

And bootless was the wild-beast show,

The lessee counted for a flow

Of rhino to the treasury.

But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight

Saw Drury in a proper light,

Refused, for any sum per night,

To sing at the Menagerie.

With rage and ire in vain displayed

Each super drew his wooden blade,

In fury half and half afraid,

For his prospective salary.

Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,

And speedily the goosequill drew

With which he is accustomed to

Pen such a deal of poetry.

He wrote the maiden, to remind

Her of a compact she had signed,

To Drury Lane’s condition blind,

And threaten’d law accordingly.

Fair as in face in nature, she

Implored the man to set her free,

Assuring him that he should be

Remunerated handsomely.

Two thousand pounds she offered, so

That he would only let her go:

Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No!

With dogged pertinacity.

And now his action let him bring,

And try how much the law will wring

From her to do the handsome thing,

Who had proposed so readily!

The Swedish Nightingale to cage

He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage,

And left him to digest his rage,

And seek his legal remedy.

Then shook the House with plaudits riven,

When Jenny’s opening note was given,

The sweetest songstress under heaven

Forth bursting into melody,

But fainter the applause shall grow,

At waning Drury’s wild-beast show,

And feebler still shall be the flow

Of rhino to the treasury.

The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,

Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;

Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave,

And cheer with all thy chivalry.

’Tis night, and still yon star doth run;

But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,

And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn,

And quadrupeds, and company.

For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet,

Their fellowship had been unmeet,

The sawdust underneath whose feet

Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.

_Punch_, May 15, 1847.

Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had

endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she

accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance

at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her _début_ was a

brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric

stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto

Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally

performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or

other philanthropic objects.

――――

THE BAL MASQUÉ AT CROCKFORD’S.

On Thursday, ere the time was come

For supper’s joys――the guests were glum,

And deep as thunder was the hum

Of thousands polking sullenly.

But Crockford’s saw another sight,

When rang the bell at dead of night,

Commanding streams of gas to light

Her supper-room’s gay scenery.

In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent,

Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent,

And eagerly the cash was spent,

To join the coming revelry.

Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven,

Then rang the room, with laughter riven,

And loudly were the orders given

For Champagne popping merrily.

But louder yet the noise shall grow,

Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go,

And faster yet the wine shall flow,

From bottles emptied rapidly.

’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band

Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand,

While Jullien waves his wearied hand,

And leads the final galopade.

The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!

Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go.

Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow,

And make the walls re-echo thee!

Few, few, remain that sound to greet,

The dancers rest their burning feet;

And each cab in St. James’s-street

Bears home some worn-out reveller.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 1.

――――

ROW-IN-LONDON.

_Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in_ 1848.

In London, when the funds were low,

And business was uncommon slow,

The Quadrant only on the go,

And that kept moving sluggishly.

But London saw another sight

When National Guards arrived at night,

And Lumber troopers took to flight,

Across the pavement slippery.

In shirt and stockings fast arrayed,

The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid,

And with the Aldermen essayed

To join the flying Cavalry.

To cut and run they’d stoutly striven,

But back to battle they were driven,

And then the foremost rank was given

The Bunhill Row Artillery.

But bolder yet that troop must grow,

Or, London conquered by the foe,

The Gallic cock will proudly crow

On Temple Bar right merrily.

’Tis morn――but Specials in a swoon,

Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon,

Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18]

Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry.

The combat deepens――on ye brave,

Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave;

Save, Magog! oh, the city save,

And charge with all the Livery.

Few French shall tread where freemen meet

Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat;

But hung on high, with dangling feet,

Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s!

_The Puppet Show_, September 30, 1848.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD.

On Paris, when the sun was low,

The gay “Comique” made goodly show,

_Habitués_ crowding every row

To hear Limnandier’s opera.

But Paris showed another sight,

When, mustering in the dead of night,

Her masters stood, at morning light,

The crack _chasseurs_ of Africa.

By servants in my pay betrayed,

Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,

Wrote that a circumstance delayed

His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers with terror riven;

Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;

And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),

Was seized, bold Lamoricière.

But louder rose the voice of woe,

When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt,

And tearing down a helpless foe,

Flashed Magnan’s red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave

Is dragged to prison like a knave,

No time allowed the swell to shave,

Or use the least perfumery.

’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son,

(Perchance her spouse’s too) has won

The imperial crown. The French are done,

Chawed up most incontestably.